


The Pitcher

by TexasRangers17



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Original Character(s), chara
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:26:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22843237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TexasRangers17/pseuds/TexasRangers17
Summary: A son of victory deals with his greatest failure
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	The Pitcher

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys this is actually my first fic, inspired by a lot of my little league days. I've read FF for years but I'm taking my first shot at writing something. I appreciate all forms of criticism haha. Hope yall enjoy
> 
> -TexasRangers17

The Pitcher

The hardest pitches to hit are the ones on the inside, but you’ve gotta start them early in the count. It’s the same story every time in the little leagues, so much so that I developed a little algorithm for it. It starts when a snot-nosed slugger crowds the plate, brandishing the Louisville mommy and daddy ordered for him. Lift your knee into the sky like a flamingo and then, just as fast, strike it down into the mound like a viper. You always wanna throw it high and tight to start off, just enough not to beanball him but enough to scare him off the plate. The next step usually involves mommy and daddy getting ass-mad on the sidelines that the super scary pitcher with the worn gloves is trying to bean their little ~~asshole~~ angel. After they get their blood pressure down a bit I usually pitch a 4-seam fastball or a cutter. It depends on whether junior wipes his ass with his right or with his left. From there it’s a parade of pop-flys, broken bats, and grounders. The parents go off to cry in their F-150 about their kid not being the next Derek Jeter. Rinse, Repeat, Victory.

_Victory_

It was a word I’d come to resent ever since the Romans started their siege. Ever since one of those angry little league dads climbed up the fences as a sad, sexually confused bigot trying to live through his children and came down onto the field as a Laistrygonian Giant. Ever since I’d found out that I was a demigod. Ever since I was plopped in a cabin with a bunch of hyper-competitive freaks who may or may not have been on tren. Future Track and Field stars, Premier League Players, and that one Rubik’s Cube kid all suddenly were my half-siblings. The arrangement was fair enough and I even kinda liked it for the first couple of months, even if everyone else was kinda lousy at baseball. Everyone except that Malcolm kid. The guy was a real Albert Pujols. He wasn’t like the little league brats, he knew how to handle a 2-seam fastball. Hands behind the ball, shoulders, hips and feet square with me, swinging before the ball gets to him. He’d always get off a solid hit towards the far left outfield, and almost guaranteed 1st-base run.

“You figured out my system!” I hollered at him from the mound.

He gave me one of those half-smiles, the ones that are kinda fake looking until you know the guy giving them out. He turned his attention to me.

“Yeah, well you’re not making it too hard on me.” He replied. “High and tight followed by a cutter or a fastball. I’d thought I’d see a little more variety from a baseball prodigy. You’d learn a lot more from behind the bat you know.”

He pointed towards the spiked celestial bronze club he’d left lying in the dirt as he blasted off to second. It reminded me a little of those composite Louisvilles. It was gaudy, decorated in Greek characters. The symbols swarmed together around the club, a cacophony of characters that were as formless and devoid of meaning as the aforementioned Louisvilles. 

I lifted my nose in the air. “I’m good at what I’m good at. Getting behind the bat isn’t one of em’.” I readied myself to strike out another kid, just to catch the steal attempt in the nick of time. I locked eyes with Malcolm as the ball sailed to my second baseman.

“Looks like I learn enough from where I am,” I said.

* * *

There wasn’t much time for baseball during the siege. Weapons had to be forged, ballistae had to be armed, and wills had to be written, all that jazz. During a frantic war meeting in the amphitheater, I slinked off. If there’s one thing I hated it was that kumbaya crap we did in there, but I think I hated all of us standing around so goddamn stoically explaining how’d we’d get ourselves killed. I arrived at the beach and softly cradled a worn baseball mitt, a beaten Wilson glove. Smeared across the palm of the glove were little notes of encouragement.

“You can do it!” said one note, written in faded blue sharpie.

“Bean a kid in the tits for me!” said another, its characters arranged in a definite and lovely cursive script.

“Make sure to throw the cutter!” said yet another.

All of these notes were from my younger brother Pierre. He’d written them before my games so I’d have something to look at on the mound when I’d gotten bored. I’d written the same sorta things for him, only my script was dogshit. He looked a lot like me, curly dark black hair and brown skin. His irises were tinted with a boring shade of brown but he made up for it for his toothy yet endearing smile, as if he knew it was only a matter of time before his pearls kicked in and he’d be unstoppable.

He’s dead now. When the Laistrygonians followed me home afterward they’d launched about a dozen bronze cannonballs at my apartment building. Pierre and I hurried down the fire escape as I gripped my glove and bat hoping the flaming spheres wouldn’t brain one of us in the head. In a great display of luck, a sphere cleaved through one of the metal supports, and we both tumbled onto the pavement, a couple of yards or so from the giants. One of the big uglies hefted a cannonball in his hair covered arm and threw hard, straight at us. I didn’t swing. I had a bat and I didn’t swing. Maybe it was because I’d have never tried, maybe it wasn’t as satisfying as being on the mound. It doesn’t matter anymore. I watched the bronze sphere barreling through the air in all its glory. I saw my visage of cowardice, reflected back towards be on its surface as it collided with Pierre. I was 12 at the time, too old to cry. But I ran away as fast as I could and didn’t speak to anyone for a long long time.

I don’t remember much after that. My memories were as formless and devoid of meaning as the aforementioned bats. A long strain of malaise, punctuated by brutal strokes of violence and terror, all leading up to my arrival at camp. I was getting what I deserved. Maybe things were nice and lovely now but I had dreams, dreams of my death, each for gruesome and terrifying than the last. I’d pay for my cowardice once the first of August hit, one way or another.

I thought about these things for a while until I saw a form emerge from the shadows. A woman dressed head to toe in Nike apparel approached me on the beach. Nike joggers, a Nike windbreaker, the works. I thought her flyknits weren’t really suited for sand but I wasn’t about to chew her out for her fit. I studied her face. Her irises bore the same shades of boring brown as Pierre, but the rest of her eyes carried a melancholy that extended to the rest of her face. She sat next to me and we watched the lake ebb in and out on the shore.

“Do you know why I’m here?” she asked. We made eye contact again and I couldn’t help but feel as if I was looking at my own reflection.

“I’m not really sure.” I replied, “Last I heard you were in a net aboard a magic flying ship.”

She scowled like I’d given her a participation ribbon or came out here wearing an Adidas tracksuit or something. “My physical form is upon a ship, but I’m projecting a part of myself to be here, with you.”

“Geez, you pulled out all the stops huh? What’s next a proposal at Olive Gardens?”

I’d meant to be biting but my voice cracked halfway through. She snorted and laugh, a real laugh full of life that almost made me forget that I’d be run through with a spear or decapitated tomorrow. She settled down and looked at me.

“I’d meant to visit you after you arrived at camp. I wanted you to know that I’m a fan of your work.” She subconsciously materialized a baseball in her hand, tracing her fingers against the seams. “A lot of people don’t throw cutters anymore. It’s bad for the arm they say. They’re right of course but that’s the trade-off. Destroying your very body for victory.” She stood up and launched the ball towards the lake. It watched it streak through the night sky until it disappeared over the horizon.

I glanced down at my glove. She seemed to know what I was thinking.

“Lonnie Smith. Active in the MLB from 74’ to 94’. You know him right?” She inquired.

“Yea for sure.” I replied, “Guy won 3 world series in 6 years with 3 different teams. Only player ever to do so.”

“Do you know anything else about him?” she asked. She raised her eyebrows, expecting me to answer. Personally, I knew a lot about the likes of Joe DiMaggio, Tony Gwynn, and Bo Jackson, but Lonnie Smith was drawing an odd blank on me.

“Lonnie was one of the fastest guys in baseball. In 82’ he stole 68 bases. He was also one of the best batters in the league.” She paused as if to make a dramatic point, “He also did a lot of cocaine. An exuberant amount really. Which wasn’t atypical, a lot of the league was doing it at the time, but this man could snort 4 8-balls in one night. Zeus knows why he didn’t drop dead there and then.”

“So I guess the lesson here is to snort a line up my nostrils and hope to the gods I don’t get domed between my freakin’ eyebrows. Got it thanks.”

“No that’s not the…well…,” she conjured up an 8-ball in her hand, although I don’t think she was aware of it. It disappeared as quickly as it came.

“The point is,” she continued, “is that even after all his success Lonnie hated his life. He was snorting in front of his wife and kids, his muscles were deteriorating. If he continued he would’ve died for sure. Thank Zeus he got himself into rehab.”

“Great for him, really. But I don’t have or plan on becoming a crackhead anytime soon, so if that’s-“like magic a thick band of athletic tape wound itself around my mouth. She continued, now free from any interruptions.

“After kicking the coke habit Lonnie got transferred to the Royals. He won the series again but he hated it. St. Louis was his home, and the American League didn’t suit him. He wanted out, but the league was colluding against free agents. He had to crawl back to St.Louis for a measly 300k, a 60% pay cut.

300k for in the 80s sounded like fairly good money to me but I wasn’t really one to talk. A cool 50$ was a fortune to me.

“Lonnie’s stats dived. He hates the GM, John Schuerholz, for screwing him over. He bails from the Cardinals, but not before Schuerholz effectively blackballed him in the rest of the league. Lonnie’s anger grew. He lauded over the past. The mistakes, the missed opportunities, and the injustice he’d faced.”

Out from her sleeve, she drew a handgun. I was half worried that she’d blow my brains out right there but she looked like she was just trying to make a point. Still, the way she waved that thing made me nervous.

“Lonnie purchased a handgun just like this and plotted. What better way to avenge his failed career than to execute the man who stole it? Just one pull of the trigger and all his problems would disappear. He went in his backyard and aimed the gun towards the dirt, imagining Schuerholz bloated face at the end of the barrel. He pulled the trigger and-“

She demonstratively pulled the gun trigger. Something shot into the sand but that wasn’t the interesting part. The hammer of the gun had sliced open her hand. Golden ichor dripped on the beach.

“Lonnie was at his lowest point. Jobless, angry, and depressed with no prospects for the future. But the Braves gave him a chance. In the year ’89, despite being 50 pounds heavier than when he was a rookie, Lonnie worked his way back up to a WAR of 8.9.”

My eyes widened. To be considered an All-Star you’d most likely have a WAR of above 6.0. Joe DiMaggio himself had a WAR of 9.0. I’d wondered why I hadn’t heard this about Smith before, and then I remembered.

She saw the realization hit my eyes and undid the athletic tape.

“They went to the series,” I started, “Lonnie killed it, batting a homer every 1/10. He was a monster til game 7 when he didn’t run.”

She nodded approvingly. “That’s right. Top of the 8th and a tied game and he didn’t run. One of the greatest sports comebacks of all time thwarted because he didn’t run. Was it really all his fault? He couldn’t see the ball in the outfield. The Braves could’ve hit a homer while he was on 2nd. Hard to say but one of the greatest sporting moments for Atlanta, one of the greatest sports comeback stories, lost in time because Lonnie Smith was too scared to run home. The collective universe shit on Lonnie his entire life, and he didn’t get a happy ending to compensate. Do you understand the point of this lesson now, my boy?”

“Yea,” I croaked, “that I messed up. I didn’t swing and now Pierre’s dead and I’m gonna have to pay for it. I’ll get what’s comin’ in the end.” I was starting to cry, which was a little embarrassing for someone as goddamn old as me, so I turned away from her. I felt a comforting touch on my shoulder, and for a moment I thought she was going to pull me in, hug me, and tell me that everything would be okay and all that jazz.

Instead, she pulled my ear and turned me around to face her, her eyes burning with righteous fury. She steeled her gaze and started speaking.

“Lend me your ears boy, because I am about to reveal to you the facts of life. Everyone gets what is coming to them in the end. Do you understand me? Everyone, even the gods. One day soon another victor will rise and conquer the Olympians. The Lord of the Sky will be chopped into pieces and spread across the earth, just as his father and his father before him. Everyone pays for their cowardice, everyone pays for their cruelty and ignorance. Everyone pays for their rage and greed, their laziness and bigotry. Their lust, their pride, and their dishonesty. Everyone has it coming, people will continue to claim victory over one another until the sun disappears and we’re reabsorbed into Chaos. That is the fact of life. That is the truth no one wants to hear.”

She paused, and the fire in her eyes reverted back to the same boring brown as before, the veneer of fury substituted with a deep-seated woe.

“In the end, I will get what’s coming to me. I will pay for my failure to protect you, and Pierre. That is a fact of life. All we can do now is to claim victory before our time is up, between our failures. One day you will fall, and it will be comeuppance for your failure. Just as Bellpehron did, just as Jason did, just as Orpheus did. This is the fate of all heroes. Claim as much success as you can between then, between the seasons.”

She rose up and produced a bat in her hands. It was the same spiked celestial bronze club with the swirling characters from before. Except now, the inscription was clear. Etched in faded sharpie and a lovely cursive script were the words” _την επιμονή_ _.”_

“The Persistence,” I translated, “but what’s its purpose?”

She didn’t answer that question. She turned from me and ventured towards the edge of the beach.

“Remember my son, victory is granted to those who are brave enough to take it. You will avenge your brother. Or you’ll die trying.”

She disappeared into the shadows, leaving me alone with the beach, the bat, the lake, the glove, and the inky night sky.

* * *

The next day was the worst. I’ll slip through most of the boring jazz of all us Greeks getting prepped in the morning. By noon we were charging down half-blood hill until some chick with a cape gave us back a statue. Everyone stopped the advance after that so I dunno what the hell all the hype was for. One of those crazy things that happen from time to time.

But things went south when all the monsters surrounding us decided to attack us. I mean I’m no genius but I could’ve seen that coming, the dickheads in the purple shirts must’ve not been the brightest.

We battled hard and all that I guess. I was never the best warrior but the club helped. I slammed a couple of centaurs so hard in the head they’re molars went on a little adventure outta their mouths. Still, I could feel that I was gonna eat shit sooner or later. Just a matter of time.

Sooner or later came quicker than I expected. I saw two skinny kids, one blonde one who looked like he was two seconds from posting his manifesto on 4chan and another one who was doing his best e-boy cosplay. They were mouthing off in front of one of the onagers. I was thinkin’ that e-boy had it covered until I saw it. Malcolm, lying hurt and bloodied about a yard from the onager, and the giant. His eyes filled with hate, I watched the laistrygonian heft a bronze sphere towards the sky. He wore a worn Wilson, with little notes in shitty script written all over it.

_Pierre_

I bolted between the advancing giant and Malcolm. I turned back to look at the son of Athena, and his eyes were still and focused on the club in my hand.

‘Victory comes to those who are brave enough to take it.” My mom had said.

There’s no way I’d survive. He’d bean try me if I faulted to the side, cleaving my torso right of my hips. But if I stayed right where I was, I could strike it right down the middle…

This was it. I’d get what was comin to me. But maybe I could save my new friend, and the onager (although I wasn’t sure why that mattered).

The giant lifted his foot in the air like a flamingo, then brought it down just as fast, like a viper. His shoulder blades twisted and he launched it right down the middle.

I thought of Pierre, I thought about my reflection the last time the sphere sailed past me, the visage of cowardice. I thought I about the last time I didn’t swing.

The sphere roared towards me and I swung.


End file.
